The Clarion eBook

“Didn’t you know I was a little sister
of the poor? When you’ve lost all your
money and are ill, I’ll come and lay my cooling
hand on your fevered brow and bring wine jelly to
your tenement.”

“Aren’t you afraid of contagious diseases?”
he asked anxiously. “Such places are always
full of them.”

“Oh, they placard for contagion. It’s
safe enough. And I’m really interested.
It’s my only excuse to myself for living.”

“If bringing happiness wherever you go isn’t
enough—­”

“No! No!” She smiled up into his
eyes. “This is still a business visit.
But you may take me to my car.”

On his way back Hal stopped to tell Wayne that perhaps
the Pierce story wasn’t worth running, after
all. Unease of conscience disturbed his work
for a time thereafter. He appeased it by the excuse
that it was no threat or pressure from without which
had influenced his action. He had killed the
item out of consideration for the friend of his friend.
What did it matter, anyway, a bit of news like that?
Who was harmed by leaving it out? As yet he was
too little the journalist to comprehend that the influences
which corrupt the news are likely to be dangerous in
proportion as they are subtle.

Wayne understood better, and smiled with a cynical
wryness of mouth upon McGuire Ellis, who, having passed
Hal and Esme on the stairs, had lingered at the city
desk and heard the editor-in-chief’s half-hearted
order.

“Still worrying about Dr. Surtaine’s influence
over the paper?” asked the city editor, after
Hal’s departure.

“Yes,” said Ellis.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Did you happen to notice about the prettiest
thing that ever used eyes for weapons, in the hall?”

“Something of that description.”

“Let me present you, in advance, to Miss Esme
Elliot, the new boss of our new boss,” said
Wayne, with a flourish.

“God save the Irish!” said McGuire Ellis.

CHAPTER XIII

NEW BLOOD

Echoes of the Talk-it-Over Breakfast rang briskly
in the “Clarion” office. It was suggested
to Hal that the success of the function warranted
its being established as a regular feature of the shop.
Later this was done. One of the participants,
however, was very ill-pleased with the morning’s
entertainment. Dr. Surtaine saw, in retrospect
and in prospect, his son being led astray into various
radical and harebrained vagaries of journalism.
None of those at the breakfast had foreseen more clearly
than the wise and sharpened quack what serious difficulties
beset the course which Hal had laid out for himself.

Trouble was what Dr. Surtaine hated above all things.
Whatever taste for the adventurous he may have possessed
had been sated by his career as an itinerant.
Now he asked only to be allowed to hatch his golden
dollars peacefully, afar from all harsh winds of controversy.
That his own son should feel a more stirring ambition
left him clucking, a bewildered hen on the brink of
perilous waters.